Black
by Joby87
Summary: Pre-series: Teenaged Sam is diagnosed with a brain tumor. The Winchesters fight like hell as they take on a threat they never expected...sick Sam. Limp Dean (later on). A 5-chapter story.
1. Chapter 1 - The Cause

**A/N: Hello everyone! Thank you for taking the time to read this. The research found in this story is based off my findings from various medical journals, medical websites, and survivor accounts; therefore there may be some fallacies due to my own error. However, I hope it all makes sense in not only bringing to you a Supernatural story, but also awareness for a certain medical condition. There will only be five chapters for this story. They are complete, minus a few tweaks. I will be posting a chapter every few days or so. I hope you enjoy!**

**A/N 2: I do not own any material...just playing around in the Supernatural universe. **

* * *

**CHAPTER ONE:**

**THE CAUSE**

Dean Winchester was pissed. His younger brother was supposed be home by 1630 sharp so they can get on the road to Alabama, per their father's directive. Only Sam wasn't…nor was he answering his phone. The kid could have been anywhere in the thirty square-mile town. The last thing he wanted to do was go on a scavenger hunt before a long road trip. He rolled his eyes, grumbling loudly, as he arrived at the high school, running up the entrance stairs. Figuring the kid decided to stay after class, the high school was the first stop on his search.

"Hello ma'am," he said to the school receptionist, leaning over the counter grinning, flashing his pearly whites. The middle-aged woman with tight, brown curls had picked up her bag to leave when he entered the office. She appeared annoyed, averting her gaze to the clock on the wall. "I'm looking for my little brother," he announced. "Can you help me?"

Silently huffing, the receptionist sat back down and opened up the Log Book. "What's his name?"

"Sam. Sam Winchester. He's a junior."

"Hang on," she flipped the page searching for the name. "Yeah, he's not here. He signed out this morning claiming he had a doctor's appointment. He didn't return."

"Doctor's appointment? Did he say who?"

"No, sorry."

"Are you sure?" Dean pressed. "Don't you find it kind of odd that he didn't tell me?"

"I think you need to take it up with him," she replied, nodding towards the door.

Dean took the hint and turned to leave. There were too many doctors in town to visit all of them, and it was close to five o'clock, so he had to think. Where would the kid go? Arcade? No, that's where he would go. The Winn-Dixie parking lot? Scratch that, he was far too introverted to partake in the local kids' social hang-out. He tried the kid's Nokia again. It went to voicemail after the third ring.

"Dammit Sam," he growled in frustration. "Where the hell did you go?"

The next place to try was the library, the bookworm's frequent haunt. Seldom would he see the nerd without a pile of books next to his bed. The librarian knew who he was based off of Dean's description. She informed him she hadn't seen him in there that day. The fraying edge of panic began to set in, the vision of his Dad fileting his ass over the news one of his sons were missing dancing before his eyes. As of today, Sam typically wouldn't take off without saying anything to him, or picking up the phone. If Dad called him, odds were he wouldn't answer the call. Sam and Dad never saw eye-to-eye, and eight times out of ten would get into screaming matches. The end result would be where one found their way through a bottle of Jack while the other stormed out of the house for a few hours. He decided to search the building, leaving no shelf, table, book nook, reading pit, what have you, unchecked.

He had just dialed Sam's number for the sixth time when he stopped by one of the windows in the library. Outside there was a boy of Sam's lean frame, shaggy hair, and beige jacket sitting on a bench in the dog park across the street. Upon closer look as he exited the building it was most definitely his brother. He ended the call mumbling to himself about how he was going to kick this kid's ass into next week.

Those thoughts soon dissipated as he approached the bench. The teenager sat hunched, his gaze forlorn, almost non-blinking. A manila folder lay in his lap.

"Sam?" he began, his voice rising. "What are you doing? I've been looking everywhere for you. We need to get on the road."

His kid brother didn't acknowledge his question or even look at him. He kept his gaze on the grass, his fist clenching the file.

"Sam, what the hell is going on with you? Snap out of it!" Then he heard the faint sniffle, his brother now looking away from him. A pang of worry filled his gut and he knelt by him placing a hand on his shoulder. "Sam, talk to me. What's wrong?"

No words, Sam handed him the manila folder. "What is this?" he asked, opening it. Both sides of the file had paperwork attached: the left side filled with reports of medical tests; the right side with scans…scans of a head? The bottom of the scans had a ton of medical jargon that Dean couldn't understand at first glance.

"Bad news, that's what," Sam finally answered.

"I don't even know what I'm looking at."

"Look at the scan on Page 2 on the right side. Do you see the black spot?"

Dean turned to the page and saw the scan of what appeared to be a brain. There was a dark mass towards the right side of the sphere. "Yeah, I see it."

"That'll be the tumor."

Every part of Dean's body froze, his expression wild. "What? No way."

"Way!"

"I don't…" he flipped the pages of the file erratically, speed reading the rhetoric to understand, though it didn't help. "What? How do you know?"

"I've, um…" Sam licked his lips. "For the past few months or so…I've been having these blackouts, just pockets of time I don't remember much…and these really bad migraines. I thought maybe it might be the stress of the job…or even the job, like something we deal with, you know?"

"Like possession?"

"Yeah…something like that. I borrowed a few of Dad's charms, tried the salt thing, even looked it up in a spell book…but they kept happening. So finally, I decided to get some tests done. I went in a few weeks ago."

"Is that what this is?" Dean asked referring to the file.

Sam nodded.

"How were you able to get tests done? I thought you had to have Dad present or something? Does he know about this?"

"No, he doesn't. I'm sixteen, Dean. All the doctor needs is his signature."

"Which I'm sure you forged?"

Sam shrugged. "S'not the first time I've done it."

Slightly miffed, Dean spat, "How could you keep something like this from us? I would have gone with you. Dad would too."

Unfazed by his tone, Sam answered nonchalantly, "You guys had a lot going on. You and Dad were doing back-to-back hunts non-stop. I didn't want to add to it. Besides, it could have been nothing."

"Yeah, well, now it ain't." Dean sighed, trying to remain calm at this news. "What's the next step for something like this? What did the doc say?"

"I didn't find out…I kinda ran."

"Come again?"

"Today Dr. Reuben said that they confirmed there is something wrong and that they needed Dad here before he could say anything else. I couldn't wait…so I snuck into the desk and took the file. They need to do a biopsy to confirm everything, but not without Dad's consent."

"So we don't know if this is malignant or not…it could be benign. That's slightly better news."

Sam huffed and said, "Turn to Page 5."

As instructed, Dean found the page and saw the scan dated three weeks prior. The black spot was twice as small as the spot on Page 2. He turned to Sam, puzzled.

"Page 5 is the tumor from the first MRI. Page 2 is the tumor from last Friday. It's growing. The tests are talking about aggression rates. One can only assume it's malignant," he said sarcastically.

There wasn't enough alcohol in the world to deal with something like this. They needed help, guidance. Shaking his head, Dean took out his phone. "I'm calling Dad."

"No, Dean, don't! I don't think I want him to know."

"Sam, he has to know! He needs to be here so we can deal with this."

"How?"

"Well, for starters, Dad can talk to the doctor. Get more information. Find out exactly what this is and make a plan in getting rid of it. This is not a debate."

Sam closed his eyes, resigned to the fact that this crappy situation was about to become a lot more complicated as his brother punched in their father's number.

John picked up on the fourth ring. "You in route?" he asked brusquely.

"No sir, we have a problem," Dean answered.

"What is it?"

"It's Sam, Dad. He's sick."

"That's no excuse Dean," John responded. "Give him some cold meds and get on the road. I need you –"

"Dad!" Dean interrupted. "Listen to me. Sam is sick. We need you to come home now."

"How sick are we talking?"

"It's pretty serious. They did some tests and the doc says he has a brain tumor. We need you to meet with the guy so we can figure this out." There was a long pause on the other line. "Dad, are you there?"

"Are you at the house?"

"No sir."

"Get home. Sit tight. I'm on my way." The call dropped.

Dean stowed the phone back in his pocket. "Dad's on his way. Come on dude, let's get you home," he offered. He noticed Sam was on the verge of tears. "What is it?"

Sam worked to stifle his emotion but failed. Soon tears leaked down the sides of his cheeks and he said in a small whisper, "The file says this thing is pretty aggressive. From the sound of it, I don't think they can stop it…I don't want to die, Dean."

"Whoa, whoa! It's not going to come to that." Dean sat on the bench beside him and pulled him into his arms. "It's going to be okay Sammy. Right now, we don't have much to go on. We'll figure this out. We always do. In the meantime, let's set up shop at the house and call it a night. Dad will know what to do when he gets here."

Wiping away his tears, Sam nodded in reply, allowing his brother to lead the way home.

* * *

As soon as John arrived home, he had made an emergency consultation with Sam's attending doctor, Dr. Reuben, the following morning. The physician surely was annoyed that Sam took the file, though he didn't press the issue seeing the height and built of the other two Winchesters. The men were eager to hear about his findings. He called it a Primary Brain Tumor that was located in both Sam's Parietal and Temporal lobes, just between the Hypothalamus and Cerebellum. It explained the severe headaches, the blackouts, and the constant fatigue he had been experiencing. He further explained that primary meant it was a single tumor that originated in the brain and it did not travel from elsewhere, otherwise known as Metastatic. It meant there was no other cancer in his body to worry about.

The diagnosis did not alleviate the tension in the room. The men were also eager to find out what would be the course of treatment. Dr. Reuben told them that after consulting with a neurosurgeon, he scheduled a biopsy procedure the following week. Only then could they determine the severity of the tumor and decide on the treatment plan.

Sam appeared strong, slightly nervous, though Dean could see through his façade; the kid was scared shitless. He didn't blame him. The thought of someone drilling a hole inside his head was both nauseating and horrifying.

The morning for the procedure came and went. John and Dean were not allowed to see him until the following morning as the staff needed to keep Sam in recovery. Dean opted to stay in the waiting room in case something went awry, though deep down he just wanted to be near Sam. John opted to go out and work on their bank. Prior to the biopsy, John discussed the situation with Dean that they were to stay put until Sam was well enough again…though that meant having to be creative in securing cash to live off of. Dean wasn't sure what plan his father had, but he was glad for the directive to look after Sam. He never expected to be trekking down this road and was appreciative of the freedom to do so.

A nurse hadn't arrived to collect them until about noon the following day. Glad for the update, both elder Winchesters followed at a brisk pace to the I.C.U. A doctor was performing a neurological test on Sam when they entered. His brother had a white bandage wrapped around the back of his head and his eyes were heavy, still groggy from the anesthesia. Sam spelled out his ABCs upon asked, as well as answer his name, year, and birthday. Dr. Reuben tested his coordination skills by moving his arms up and down, legs, fingers, and toes. When the doctor was satisfied that no further damage had occurred during the procedure, he turned to the two men, who stood waiting.

Before he began, the neurosurgeon, an Indian man in mint green scrubs named Dr. Singh, entered the room, taking part in the meeting. Dr. Reuben pulled up two chairs beside Sam's bed and motioned for them to take a seat. Sam's head listed back and he closed his eyes, falling into a stupor. It was obvious he wasn't going to attend this meeting.

"We were successful in removing a piece of the tumor's tissue," Dr. Singh began. "We had it tested and now know that we have a Grade 3 Anaplastic Astrocytoma."

At the glazed looks, he continued, "It's a tumor that affects the neurons, or more specifically the astrocytes that help process the information in the brain. If the tumor advances, he could experience seizures, memory loss, loss of coordination and balance, etc. It's a relatively common tumor…however, it seems to be growing at a large rate and we're not sure why. In cases like this, removal is the best bet. But we want to be cautious as it's incredibly risky given its location."

"We consulted our colleagues," Dr. Reuben spoke in turn, "and we feel, given the size of it, that he may not survive if we operate now. We want to begin a round of radiation treatments to see if we can shrink it…or at the very least, kill some of the cells to stop it from growing."

"You mean Chemo?" John asked.

"No, not yet," Dr. Rueben answered. "We will try radiation therapy first. It's a different procedure where we use a machine to target the cells using x-ray beams instead of drugs like Chemo. This should help stop its growth before we create a plan for removal. Once he's had the surgery, then we may need to do Chemo to flush out any of the other cells. We'll know more as we continue to monitor and test it."

"Are there any side effects? With the radiation?"

"Yes, you should expect some of the same effects as a Chemo patient. Expect weight loss, hair loss, nausea and vomiting, mood swings. We'll prescribe him medication to counteract these. It just depends on how sensitive he is for treatment. I'll try to schedule him as soon as possible – this coming Monday or Tuesday at the latest. We want to get on top of this now."

"How do we do this?" Dean asked.

Dr. Singh sat forward in his seat. "I recommend a more aggressive course of treatment, meaning I think it would be best to do the radiation treatment for 4-5 times per week for six weeks. Four weeks from the initial treatment, we'll come back and take an MRI. That'll let us know if we are able to operate. If we can't and it's too risky, we'll go with the Chemo after the last radiation treatment."

"Okay, so we have a plan." John piped, suddenly relieved. Dean knew his father liked plans and went through high hell or water to follow them to the 'T'. It certainly helped them with this new dilemma as they had no idea where to start.

"We'll need him back here in about two weeks so we can remove the stitches from his head," Dr. Reuben stated. "In the meantime, I've procured a list of things for him to do that'll help with this process. Maintain a healthy lifestyle like walking each day for at least 5 minutes, eating a balanced diet. It's going to be a little difficult to maintain that once he starts the treatments, but it's imperative that he does."

"To recap," Dr. Singh said. "After radiation treatments for about four weeks, we want him back here to take an MRI to see his progress. That'll help us plan for surgery or tell us if we cannot safely operate. We'll send you home with a packet of instructions as well. Understand?"

"Yes, we do," John answered. "Let's hope for good news then."

"Alright Sammy, time to gear up dude," Dean stood and approached his sleeping sibling, grasping his shoulder. "We've got a long, hard road ahead of us."

He just had no idea how hard it would be.


	2. Chapter 2 - The Effect

**CHAPTER TWO:**

**THE EFFECT**

Sam was in Hell.

Certainly, he realized, the real place is much worse, though he couldn't deny his current existence felt akin to the same amount of torture.

As soon as the radiation treatments began, it wasn't long afterwards when the first round of side effects hit Sam like a line-drive plowing into an unsuspecting baseball fan. The doctor said the aftereffect differs with each patient – some may not experience any reactions, whereas others are more acute. Sam dealt with the worst of nausea and vomiting, almost as bad as a pregnant mom with Hyperemesis Gravidarum. The first bout of vomiting hit in the middle of the night after the first treatment and hadn't – it seemed – stopped.

Interspersed with blinding headaches, constant fatigue, and hypersensitivity to touch, Sam became so, so sick. Dean read up on all the expectant and un-expectant side effects, trying to be prepared for whatever may come their way. He scrambled trying to find towels, wipes, anything to clean up when uncontrolled projectile vomiting or diarrhea occurred. Poor Sam apologized to him every second of the day, sweating, weak on his bed, clearly embarrassed. Dean tried to assure him, but it was like speaking with an abused puppy.

Towards the end of the first week, Sam found himself pacing in his bedroom. His nerves were on fire, everything in his body aching. His insides squirmed as if a hot poker stirred inside, the muscles in his back taut like they were electrified, and the soles of his feet twitched with unrelenting spasms. The pain kept him awake. The pacing hadn't helped to relieve it either. Tears sprung to his lids as he worked hard to stop his shaking hands.

Finally, he decided to wake Dean up, hoping his big brother had a solution. Quietly, he knocked on the door. There was no answer so he stepped in, ambling toward a snoring Dean. Hands trembling, he tapped him on the shoulder. "Dean, wake up."

It took a few more prods, but Dean soon stirred from his deep sleep. "Whatsit Sammy?" he slurred.

"Um…um…" Sam couldn't find the words. He hugged his body tighter trying to stifle the shakes.

"Sam?" Dean sat up.

He couldn't take it anymore and a torrent of tears flowed down his cheeks. "I'm in a lot of pain and I don't know what to do."

His big brother was on his feet in seconds, guiding him down on his bedspread. He turned on the bedside lamp and knelt down beside him. "Where does it hurt?"

Sam wiped away his tears, steadying his breath. "All…all over…just everywhere…"

"Okay, just try to relax all right? You're very tense and I don't think that's helping," Dean encouraged. "Wait here, I'll get a heating pad and will call your doctor."

"He's not available right now. He's probably asleep."

"Then I'll wake his ass up. I nicked his cell phone number from the receptionist's desk…you know, extra insurance," he smiled.

A minute later, he came back in with the heating pad, instructed him to lie down on his side while he turned it on and placed it over his back. Sam obliged, somewhat relieved he wasn't going to endure this misery alone. Small twinges of pain undulated up his spine and neck, working its way to the back of his head.

Dean entered the kitchen and made a call to his doctor. After an awkward exchange of 'how did you get this number' and a subtle threat, the doctor gave Dean what he needed. He returned to his bedroom with a container of liquid Codeine.

"The doc said it was okay to give you this," he poured some in a small cup and gave it to Sam who slurped it down without hesitating. "That should take the edge off whatever's going on."

"Thanks Dean," Sam said through gritted teeth, still tense and unable to rest. "What else did he say?"

"Only that this wasn't a side effect of the radiation treatment and may be that the brain tissue around the tumor is inflamed and pressing on your nerves."

"Great…" Sam shuddered. "This sucks."

"I know Sammy. Just hang in there." Dean assured. "You can stay in here tonight. I don't want you to move…at least not until the Codeine kicks in."

"Okay." Sam was appreciative of the offer. His brother then sat beside him on the bed, his back to the headboard, and he relayed some of his most embarrassing stories during his school years. It helped to pass the time for the Codeine to do its job in suppressing the small spasms and fire burning through his body. Dean did this for an hour until Sam finally relaxed and fell asleep.

"Goodnight Sammy." Dean rustled some of his hair accidentally taking a clump out. He looked at the wad of hair in his hand and frowned despondently.

* * *

The Monday on Week Three had arrived and Dean knew Sam was dreading the next radiation appointment. His body, they learned, became highly sensitive to the treatment; itchy, sore, and slightly dehydrated due to the vomiting. The anti-nausea pills he was prescribed had little effect as they consistently made their way back up. Dean resorted to mashing them in his Pedialyte, desperate for the kid to stomach something. He had lost nearly twenty pounds in the last two and a half weeks. Due to the constant vomiting or dry-heaving, Sam could barely eat or drink which stressed Dean's worried nerves.

John had told him not to worry about how they were going to find the money. Money had always been tight in their family. However, now, it had been stretched very thin due to the office fees, the visits, and medications Sam needed. John was out every night, his boys knew, working on various hustles to acquire some extra cash. It was not ideal, or even a moral, sense of an income, but it helped. For once, Sam didn't argue. He was too tired.

One morning, Sam ran out of bed into the bathroom, tossing whatever contents – very little – into the porcelain throne. Dean called his name, asking if he was all right. Face flushed, spittle spilling over his lips, he crawled over and whipped the door shut. He laid down on the cool tile, pulled the towel off the rack, and used it as a pillow. His lids were so heavy, all he wanted to do was sleep. The regular wave of nausea ebbed and flowed, like the ocean waves under a full moon, billowing in his throat. He crawled back over and laid his head down on the toilet seat, mewling, in wait for the never-ending torture to resume its course.

Dean came to the door and knocked. "Sam? You okay?"

"I'm…fine," Sam's voice croaked from behind the door. "Leave me alone."

"Okay dude," his brother sighed. "Let me know if you need anything." Dean then entered Sam's room and noticed the vomit stain on the sheets and blanket was tinged in pink liquid – most likely from the sores in his mouth. Shaking his head, he collected the sheets and took them to the sink to soak. Laundry day was once per week at a local laundry mat. They were already scrounging for change these days, so the old fashioned way was in order.

Dean had hung the freshly washed sheets on the back of the kitchen chair when John entered through the front door. "How is he?" he asked, pulling out a wad of cash and placing it in the envelope under the urn in the fireplace.

"Still tossing his cookies all over the bathroom."

"Has he been able to eat or drink anything?"

"Not much. I gave him a Pediasure earlier hoping that will stay…but from the sound in there, I don't think it is. He hasn't been able to keep much down."

"We need to keep an eye on that Dean. We can't let him get dehydrated."

"Yes sir. How's our bank doing?"

John gave a short nod, taking a seat at the kitchen table. "It's fine," he said, though Dean could tell he omitted some part of the truth. "We'll be fine."

Dean shrugged, taking a seat opposite of his father. "We can always rob a bank. We've got the tools and contacts. That'll take care of everything."

His father gave him a sour look. "Sure, and then we'll be on the run with your brother in his condition. Great plan…"

"Sorry sir," Dean replied sheepishly. "I really hate saying this…but we can try selling the Impala."

"You love that car!"

"I know…but this is important. We've got the truck to get around. She's in good condition. She'll get us a good price. That'll help for a while." The lines in his face creased, his eyes bristled with tears; the thought of giving up his beloved hot rod felt like taking a Samurai sword to the heart. "She's just a car."

"No, Dean!" Sam cried from behind. He leaned shakily against the fridge, breathing hard. "You're not selling her, not for me!"

"Sam, that money can help us."

"Dean, that car's the only consistent home I've ever known. I don't want to lose her." He made a small 'urp' and then ran back for the bathroom, the sound of retching filling the hallway.

"It doesn't sound good in there," John said.

"Yeah…he just needs to get through it," Dean responded quietly, on the verge of exhaustion. He stared pensively at the wall. "There may be another way in solving this thing."

"Solving what? The money?"

"No, for Sam. I've been thinking about it…and I think maybe we can find an alternative source for getting rid of this tumor."

"What are you talking about?"

"Dad, we know things," Dean asserted. "Things most people don't know about, things that'll work better than any of these doctors…like some hoodoo priest or healing spell or something."

John leaned forward, staring at his son darkly. "Dean, listen to me," he said authoritatively. "That is not an option. I've already looked into it and there is nothing that can help Sam, apart from making a deal with a devil. If you try anything like that, I'll break your legs."

"Why not? Why not find some supernatural smuck and use some form of leverage?"

"I said no. That's a dark hole son, and you won't find your way out of it," his gaze softened as he said, "Just trust me on this. There was a guy I knew that did something like that…"

"Dad, I know –"

"Don't interrupt me," he growled to which Dean instantly fell silent. "There are deals you can make with witches, demons, and many other sorts. The most popular one is the Crossroads Deal. It's a deal where you sell your soul as payment in exchange for whatever you want. They come to collect that payment after a length of time."

He continued, "I worked with a man named Barry Whitmore. He was a hunter, knew him through Bobby. He told us what he had done while we were on the hunt for a nest of vamps. He sold his soul to gain information for a thing he was hunting for years. He ended up killing it years later. However, the payment came due on that hunt. We found him in his cabin…torn to pieces. So I'm going to say it again…you will not make any deal with anything. It never ends well no matter how desperate you are. Do I make myself clear?"

Disappointed, Dean muttered, "Yes sir."

* * *

A week later, Dean found Sam at the bathroom sink next to a set of clippers. His soft, brunette hair was much thinner than he recalled before, some parts completely missing from the back of his head, aside from the biopsy patch and stitches. Sam stood staring at his reflection, upset, a clump of his hair held tight his fist.

"Sammy, you okay?" He knew it was a stupid question given how the kid was rigid.

"No," Sam whispered, sniffling. He grabbed another clump of his hair and it fell out easily, the strands falling through his fingers. "It won't stop coming out. I knew this would happen eventually, but I was hoping it wouldn't. I got the clippers…but…this is so weird man. I need to do it…I'm just…I don't know what I'm waiting for."

Usually Dean would give him a sarcastic quip about 'how it needed a trim anyway' or 'it'll help with the shedding problem', but decided against it. Instead, an idea came to him. He picked up the clippers, turned it on, and mowed a strip off the middle of his head. The act made him look like Larry from the Three Stooges. Sam's jaw dropped and he stared in awe.

"Welp, I guess I can't stop there!" Dean said sarcastically, then continued to shave off the rest of his short golden hair, until there was nothing left but a buzz cut. After the work was done, Dean shrugged rubbing the fine hairs left on his scalp. "It's not half bad."

The impromptu hair cut sent Sam into a fit of laughter. "I can't believe you did that!"

"What do you think? Do I look cool like Brad Pitt in Fight Club?"

"More like Sigourney Weaver in Alien 3."

Dean made a funny look and then flashed his devil-may-care smile. "I'll take that as a compliment. Ripley's a total badass."

The exchange gave Sam the confidence he needed. He grabbed the clippers from Dean's hand, took a deep breath, and trimmed off a section from the side of his head. Nodding in affirmation that this was the right choice, he ran through another section. After three shaves, his arms tired and Dean offered to shave off the rest. Once the job was done, the brothers rubbed their heads, observing their new looks.

"We look like Jar-heads."

"Yeah… smooth, cool bastards, that's what," Dean agreed. He opened his palm where Sam gave him a high-five.

"Yeah, we look cool," Sam said, somewhat relieved.

* * *

Dean tried to make the drive as pain-free as possible. Every bump in the road, every jostle, every turn, Sam emitted small gasps of pain, cringing at every motion. "Sorry dude," he said. "We're almost there."

They were on their way to the local walk-in clinic, much to Sam's chagrin. Dean was sure he had tired of the medical visits, the daily meal of drugs, and the incessant protests his ailing body made. With the persistent vomiting, Sam had become severely dehydrated. No matter how much Dean tried, the kid couldn't keep down any food or water. The feeling of vertigo, the clammy hands, and rapid breathing forced Dean to half carry his brother to the car. They needed some help.

Exhausted, with a cramping stomach, Sam stumbled into the clinic alongside his brother. Some of the waiting patrons stared. Dean surmised his brother's pale face, red-rimmed eyes, and really skinny build caught their attention. He curled an arm around Sam's shoulders, hoping to shield him from the penetrating looks.

They approached the counter and met a young, Hispanic woman with beautiful curls. "Uh…hi, we need some help."

The woman gazed at them, concerned. Dean continued, "My brother is not feeling well and I think he may be dehydrated. Just looking to pump him full of the good stuff."

At that moment, Sam teetered, his knees buckling under. "Oh!" Dean caught him in time before he fell to the floor and hoisted him up. "I gotcha buddy."

"Honey," the receptionist began, "in his condition, I think he needs to go to the hospital. We can call and have an ambulance pick him up."

"No, please don't." Dean pleaded. "Miss, I know this looks bad, but honestly, he just needs some fluids and he'll perk back up. We can't really afford to go to a hospital. Can we just get him some fluids? That's all."

"I…"

"Please, I'm begging you."

"It's okay Sonja," a pretty, blonde nurse in blue scrubs came out and approached the counter. "I'll take a quick look at him. Have Steve cover my next patient. I'll call General if we need to."

"Sure, Sarah," Sonja shrugged, typing in some information. "Follow her to the back and we'll take care of paperwork on the way out."

"You got it, thanks!"

The nurse, Sarah, invited them back to a room. Dean filled her in on Sam's case as he helped his brother climb onto the examination table. She understood and left to retrieve the equipment. Soon Sam was hooked up to an I.V. and asleep in a fetal position on the table. Dean found a blanket from under the counter and draped it over him. Sarah checked his other vitals, reading the results from the file copy Dean gave to her, making notes in it based on the day.

"He can stay in here until the bag is gone. We're slow today, so it should be fine," she told him.

"Thank you. It's been really hard for him to keep anything down. I may have to do this at home."

"Do you know how?"

"No. I've been reading up on this as much as I can, but I can't make heads or tails on a lot of things."

"So far, you're doing fine," she said sweetly. "Right now, it looks like he's getting much needed rest. We have a few minutes and so if you want, I can help you learn how to attach an I.V."

"Really?"

"Technically speaking, I shouldn't. I can get into a lot of trouble, but…I'll make an exception today if you keep the secret between us."

"Yeah, definitely. You steer the ship and tell me how to sail."

She left to gather the needed equipment for the lesson. Dean became antsy, almost excited, when she returned. He listened intently on exactly what each piece was, its purpose, and how to insert the needle into a person's vein. He wanted to try it on himself, only Sarah then offered for him to test it on her.

"Uh…I don't think that's a good idea."

"You need to learn how to do this properly. I don't recommend doing it on yourself for the first time. Here," she extended out her arm, "give it a go."

Screaming with nerves, Dean followed the directive and practiced attaching the I.V. on the nurse following her instructions. She allowed him to practice three times on both arms and on her hand. He felt more confident now in learning this new skillset. She brought him a small box of Saline solution bags and tubing in case he will need it at home.

"Thank you Sarah. I really appreciate this, more than you really know."

She nodded with a small smile. "You're welcome. Here," she handed him a small encyclopedia. "This is mine. It got me through school in more ways than one. While he's asleep, get yourself familiar with some of the signs and how to take care of them. Let me know if you have any questions about anything."

"Awesome!" Dean replied, excited. Any knowledge in how to help his little brother he would take without hesitation.

"Come get me when the bag finishes and I'll help you carry him to the car."

"You got it."

He took another look at his sleeping sibling and adjusted the blue beanie on his head. The MRI scan Dr. Singh needed was done two days ago, so the test results should be coming in any day now. Those results would tell them if the tumor grew or shrunk, if the treatment is working, and/or what Sam's chances are. Butterflies fluttered around in his stomach, his gut singing. He hated that feeling. Any time his gut sang, trouble was just around the corner.

Needing the distraction, he opened the book and began to read.

* * *

His book bag lay packed; his homework done, stacked neatly in his notebook. Sam checked it off the mental checklist he performed each day before school. He was looking forward to going back today. Though the effects of the radiation had depleted most of his energy, he felt a little better today, well enough to leave the house, well enough to try and have some semblance of his former life. He needed a distraction before his next radiation appointment later that day, and the impending results from his last test. The results were expected to come in the mail. His stomach completed a somersault every time the mail truck stopped by. With half the tasks of his list crossed off, he headed into the kitchen to complete the rest.

Teeth brushed…check.

Extra underwear, in case he had an accident at school…check.

Medication…he swallowed the pills under the Thursday container…check.

Books to return to the library…he shoved them into his backpack…check.

Breakfast…he went to the cupboard and pulled out his usual Apple Cinnamon Cheerios and set up a bowl. His stomach seemed settled enough to try it.

He had opened the milk when his right hand suddenly twitched, growing numb. Next, several spasms worked their way up both his arms, the milk carton falling onto and splashing the kitchen table. Alarmed, he gripped the edge of the table, short of breath, his arms shaking like they were made of Jello. In less than fifteen seconds, he lost all control of his body and he fell to the ground, twitching and jerking. His body became rigid, his back arching, his breathing noisy and difficult. He couldn't scream, all sense of responsiveness gone. Terrified, confused, he fell into the beast-like clutches of this disease, unable to escape.

At the sound of a loud thud, Dean was on his feet in his bedroom. "Sam?"

John also heard the noise and came out into the hallway. "Dean, what was that?"

Strange grunts and scraping chairs propelled both father and son towards the kitchen. Dean leapt into gear upon seeing Sam, on the floor, in a convulsive fit. He was at his brother's side, gently touching his side. "Sammy!"

"Dean, he's seizing!" John called from behind.

"I know!" Dean yelled. "Dad, quick, give me a towel, pillow, something!"

John ran into the bathroom and brought out a towel off the rack. Dean instantly placed it under Sam's bucking head. "Dad, move the table and the chairs, so he'll stop hitting them. We have to let it pass."

His father did as he was asked – which was a first for Dean – and pushed back the kitchen table and chairs. Sam jerked and twisted, his whole body shaking, his eyes rolling upwards. Dean stayed by, careful not to touch him, eyeing his watch every few seconds. If the seizure had gone on for longer than two minutes, they needed to call the emergency number.

John stood paralyzed, unable to move, watching in horror. "What do we do?"

"Nothing yet!" Dean answered, still watching the time.

One minute later, the spasms ceased and Sam stilled, his body lax. Dean immediately checked for his breathing. When he learned there was no present sign of danger, he worked in rolling Sam over in the recovery position. Dean lain down next to Sam and listened intently to his breathing, barely moving an inch for another two minutes.

John was amazed at how calm his son was, focused, relentless, how he trained him for the hunt. But to see it in action with caring for something he had never expected to experience, he was beyond glad he had his eldest.

When Dean felt they were in the clear, he rolled Sam back over and into his lap. He patted his cheek, attempting to elicit a response, but was unsuccessful. Sam fell into an exhaustive and deep sleep. Dean looked to his father and said firmly, "He'll be fine in a few minutes. He's just exhausted."

"It's getting worse."

"He'll be fine," Dean pressed. "Help me move him. Let's get him to the couch and let him sleep. I'll call the school. He can't go into today."

Nodding in agreement, John assisted his son in carrying the youngest to the couch. Dean placed a blanket over Sam and took a seat on the recliner, his face falling into his hands. He worked hard to suppress the tears that threatened to spill over his cheeks. All he needed was a moment of solitude.

"I'll…um…I'll go get the mail. His results should have come in by now. Maybe we'll have some good news for a change?" John murmured, exiting out the door. It was apparent this latest episode was overwhelming for their father. He hadn't yet seen the worst when it came to the effect this disease had on his son. This was probably a reality check he hadn't vied for. Perhaps the fresh air should help calm his anxiety?

John slowly trudged through the door a few minutes later reading a letter. He had with him a grave, despairing look. Dean stood up immediately in dread understanding what it was. It was Sam's latest test results, the test that revealed if the treatment was working.

"What does it say?" Dean asked shakily.

His father closed his eyes in anguish and sat down on the coffee table. "It's not working. The tumor has grown and now is pressing on his brain stem. There's no chance of operation. They anticipate with how fast this thing is growing, he…uh…"

"What? He what, Dad!"

The once resolute and strong-willed man, who has faced countless terrors of the night and come out unscathed on many bloody encounters, now was timid, nearly speechless. Then said frightfully, "Two months, maybe less…they think he only has several weeks left to live."

"Oh my god…" Dean exclaimed and then collapsed.


	3. Chapter 3 - The Danger

**CHAPTER THREE:**

**THE DANGER**

The rumble of the Impala as it drove along the street of suburbia calmed Dean's nerves. The latest news his father gave tore out a chunk of his heart and all he wanted to do was scream. John ordered Dean not to tell his brother until he had spoken with Dr. Reuben and Dr. Singh. He had disappeared for most of the afternoon. Upon his return, Dean could tell from the look in his face, his body language, that the answer was still the same. There wasn't much else to do for Sam, other than continue with the radiation treatment and later start Chemo. It was their current and only hope.

The following afternoon, he picked Sam up from the clinic after his treatment session. Tossing the kid a Pedialyte, instructing him to drink at least half of it, he opted for the long way home. Long drives soothed his anxiety, especially regarding the current horrible subject.

Though Dean protested on Sam returning to school after his last seizure, Sam persisted in going. He wanted that normalcy back in his life. Dean understood and empathized with his kid brothers' wants. He loved school, always the bookworm; eager to learn something new each day. However, Sam's declining health had him on edge; all he wanted to do is keep him close by, as if he were the only one who could protect and save him. Sam straightened his beanie and wrapped his jacket tighter around his shoulders. The poor kid was consistently cold.

"Any news on the test results? Did they come in?" Sam asked quietly.

"Not that I've heard," Dean quickly lied. "Maybe we'll find out later today?"

"Okay," Sam nodded, looking out the window.

"Or maybe…we can take a long drive while we wait?" Dean shrugged, turning the car onto the next street towards their little cottage. "Let's get out of here and stretch our legs. Maybe go to the beach? Get some Mai Tais with the little umbrellas. Take up surfing. Sounds great, right?"

Sam stared inquisitively at him. "Okay, random."

"I'm just saying we don't really get a vacation and I think we should. We're not that far. Let's go to the Grand Canyon. We hadn't been there since we were kids."

"Uh huh…" Sam nodded his head, biting his lower lip. "It's bad, isn't it?"

"What?" Dean exclaimed. "No. What makes you say that?"

"Anytime something is wrong Dean, you talk about going away for a while…," Sam paused, looking back out the window. "Pull over."

"Why?"

"Just do it," Sam insisted, opening the door. The car barely rolled past the curb before Sam had exited, hopping onto the sidewalk. Dean turned off the engine and joined him.

"The results came in, right? They gave me an expiration date, didn't they?" Sam's eyes swelled with tears, his voice on edge. "What is it? A year? Months? Weeks?" he whispered painfully.

"No…"

"Don't lie to me! I can tell when you lie."

Dean couldn't look at him. "It's just…the tumor grew a little bit. The radiation – "

"Isn't working," Sam interrupted. "It's too aggressive. I get it."

"Sam?"

"It's okay Dean. It's okay…"

It was very far from "okay". Dean didn't know what to do or say. The small tremors in Sam's hands, the squirrely eyes, and the labored breathing of someone trying to keep it together hardly escaped his notice. This feeling of helplessness angered him. How he wanted to just wave a magic hand and make it all go away!

Sam regained his composure. Taking a deep breath, he said, "Dean, I'm scared. I know you're scared too…but I need both you and Dad to be honest with me. Honest with what my chances are. Give me some time to prepare."

"Sammy…" he sighed.

A few houses down, an elderly woman cursed dropping a large cardboard box. The box fell on its side with a loud clang capturing their attention. In need of a distraction, Sam headed towards the sunflower yellow house. "We'll talk about this later," he said in passing. Dean immediately followed after him.

"Ma'am, do you need any help?" Sam offered, stepping up to the white lattice fence.

The woman straightened up, ran a hand through her pixie salt and pepper hair, and looked at the box. "Oh my, well, yes. The postal service just dropped it off and it's heavier than I thought it was. I can use some help, but only if you don't mind."

"We don't mind," Sam replied sweetly, opening the gate. "We'll carry it inside the house for you."

"You're so sweet," the woman said. "Just inside the door will be fine." At the sight of Dean, she suddenly seemed slightly alarmed, backing away. Dean quickly noticed she stowed a ruby pendent under her black sweater. It struck him as odd.

"Come on Dean, help me." Sam asked, stirring him from his reverie.

"Sam, you relax. I'll get it."

"We'll both get it." He gave him that bullheaded look of "I dare you to stop me" as he stooped down and picked up an end. Though sick and possibly dying, Sam's stubborn streak never waned.

Shaking his head in disagreement, finally succumbing to Sam's request, he picked up the other end, and together they carried the heavy box into the front door of the house. It had a quaint foyer, much like that of a house in a Home and Garden magazine, with a small, round table, a stairwell leading upstairs, and a living room set to their right. On the foyer table sat several pots full of different herbs such as Patchouli, Wolf's Bane, and Belladonna. His instincts sang a tune, his stomach suddenly in a knot. This was no ordinary home, he thought. The homeowner quickly ushered them out before Dean could garner another look.

"Thank you again for your help, boys." She gave Dean a hard look, "Get this one home. He looks a bit peaky."

"No problem," Dean curled an arm around Sam's shoulders and walked him out. Quietly, he said in Sam's ear, "Keep walking. Don't turn around."

"What's wrong?"

"She's a witch."

"What? How do you know?"

"Did you not see the variety of witch's brew ingredients on her table? Or the heavy talisman she kept trying to hide?"

"No," Sam replied. "That doesn't mean anything. She could be a regular spinster into gardening."

"Oh Sammy, you'll get there," he softly patted his shoulder. "Maybe I'll get Dad to pay her a visit a little later?"

"What, no!" Sam stepped out in front of him. "No, you're going to leave her alone. We don't know if she's a witch, and if she is, she hasn't done anything to us. She didn't ask us for help. We offered to help her."

"She could be dangerous Sam."

"_Could_ being the right word, not _is_. Dean, there's no case in town. No dead bodies. No weird freak-show. She probably wants to be left alone."

"So what, we leave it be?"

Sam nodded, covering his mouth. His pallor paled and he ran for the bushes, spitting out a glob of saliva. Regaining his breath, he told his brother, "Yes. We shouldn't kill these things for who they are…only if they hurt other people. Okay?"

Reluctantly, Dean agreed with his brother, mostly because the kid's face developed another shade of green heralding another puke-fest. "Alright fine, we'll leave it alone for now. Let's get you home. You don't look so good and I don't want you redecorating Baby's leather."

Holding his mouth, Sam replied, "You're probably right. Forewarning, this is going to get bad."

* * *

The angry shouts of his competitors faded away as John exited into Rosito's Bar parking lot, stashing the 568 dollars he had won at pool in his back pocket. The Motorola phone buzzed alerting he had a voicemail. A local hunter must have called during his latest hustle. Only the few cohorts he placed little trust in had this number. Pressing in the code, he listened to a hasty message sent by Bobby Singer:

"John, it's Singer. Listen to me carefully…"

John stilled, holding his breath.

"I'm still in Lisbon. This thing isn't a _Momo_ as we thought. Hell, we don't know what it is. We figured out it follows a certain scent. That's why we couldn't make the connection. Whatever it is, it's not here anymore. It left. Understand me. It's _gone_! John, watch your back. Call me when you get this."

His heart hammered against his sternum. He had the truck when on hunt with Singer for the creature that had feasted on several family farms up north. One of the creature's latest kills, a half-masticated horse, lay in his truck bed – the idea to use it as bait. He and Singer were in the process of setting up a trap when he received the call from Dean.

If this monstrous thing scurried from town to town based on smell…then what if it followed the scent of the horse in the truck? Could it track that far? The truck was back at the cottage with a flat tire... with the boys! He raced to the Impala and sped out of the parking lot.

* * *

The door to Sam's room opened and Dean came out with the sick bucket, holding his breath. The stench made his eyes water forcing him to shuffle quickly to the bathroom to unload the contents in the toilet. Sam's vomit session had begun, like clockwork, several hours after the last radiation dose. There wasn't much left in the kid's stomach, but the smell alone was enough to irritate Sam's gag reflex. Dean returned the bucket to the bedside and gently pushed him onto his back. Sam grimaced, sweating, the pain from retching more acute.

"Hang on man. I'll getcha a cold cloth," Dean whispered tiredly. "Just hang tight."

"Okay." He heard the soft whisper.

It was one o'clock in the morning. Though this was becoming routine, Dean was tired. He wasn't sure when was the last time he had a full night's sleep since the diagnosis. Sam was far more fatigued now. Coupled with the nausea and vomiting, his body exhausted from the drugs and the internal fight, he could barely stand at this hour, let alone move to the bathroom to unload. The heating pad wasn't alleviating the pain, nor were the over-the-counter pain pills as he kept throwing them up.

In the kitchen, he turned on the light, and grabbed a cloth off the dish rack. Closing his eyes, he took a deep breath clutching the sink. This was so hard and he needed a second to curtail his emotions in check. It took all of Dean's reserve to trudge on with his mission, his purpose. The phone began to ring …probably Dad checking in. He decided against answering it, wanting to get back to Sam. Forcing back on the brave face, he soaked the cloth in cold water.

Someone padded into the kitchen behind him.

"Sam," he called out irritably, "I told ya I've got this. Just go back to bed." He turned around…

_It_. Wasn't. _Sam_.

_It_ was a monstrous thing that towered over him: hairy from top to bottom with a large snout of razor sharp teeth, long-clawed hands, and yellow, cat-like eyes. It released a mighty roar and swiped a heavy paw at his head that he ducked under. Hopping over to the stove, he picked up the iron-cast skillet and slapped it over the ugly face three times. On the last swing, the creature caught the skillet. It swung its other paw, slicing into his upper arm. Dean yelped, committing a combat roll and leaping up across the space to the flatware drawer. Pulling out a steak knife, he thrust it into the hairy shoulder and fled out the door.

He ran into Sam's room, slamming the door shut and locking it. The door bounced forward from the creature's weight, its powerful thuds rattling the hinges. Dean pushed against the wood panel, holding the doorknob. Sam sat up, ashen faced, and alarmed.

"We're in trouble Sammy!"

"What is it?" Sam cried.

"It's Chewbacca's killer cousin! We need to MOVE – "

The door exploded, showering Dean in wooden shards, pelting him to the floor. He rolled backwards and climbed to his feet. The creature ambled forward with outstretched claws towards Dean, who jumped out of the way last second, trapping it into Sam's closet.

Sam was too worn out to move quickly. Dean pulled him from the bed, lifting an arm around his shoulder and waist, half-carrying him out of the room. Sam's feet were not coordinated and it stunted his movement down the hallway.

"What is it, Dean?" Sam sputtered, cringing from the pain in his side.

"I don't know!" Dean gasped. "But it's hungry."

They made their way into the living room, Dean stopping shortly to find the Remington pump-gun. It was laying upright against the couch. Placing Sam down on the coffee table, Dean scooped up the gun, ran to the fireplace, and placed in two shells, cocking it. He then trained the gun at the hallway, watching for the slightest sign of the creature's emergence.

Sam achingly waited with bated breath. Strange scratching caught his attention. It sounded from the left…then to the right. The phone from the kitchen wall began to ring again. Both brothers glanced at the phone, then at each other.

"We need to get out of here now!" Dean rushed back over to Sam and pulled him to his feet.

The scratching noise then sounded from above. Sam slowly turned his head towards the ceiling and screamed. The creature clung overhead, smiling at him with a bloody snout. "DEAN!"

Sam fell to the floor with a loud yelp as Dean fired at the fiend multiple times. The creature sidled away along the plaster, avoiding each blast, before dropping down to his front. Dean suddenly sailed across the room and slid along the kitchen table, ramming into the dining room corner. The hairy beast then leapt on top of Sam, its knees on his legs, its claws piercing into his shoulders. He shouted his brother's name, throwing his hands into the creature's neck, trying with all his remaining strength to keep its snapping jaws from discovering his neck. His strength waned fast, his cries torturous as the fiend's long claws dragged across his shoulder to his chest.

The creature widened its snout to take a bite when Dean leapt onto its back and pulled the shotgun beneath its throat. Rearing up, it flipped him over to the ground, the gun dropping next to Sam. Next it picked Dean up by the shirt and hurled him into the kitchen fridge. The pulsing power of fear coursed through Sam's body and he crab-walked back towards the house's small fireplace, to the box of buckshot pellets.

Before Dean could counteract, the creature pounced on top of him, impaled his side with its long claws, and bit into his collarbone, tearing out a chunk of flesh. A strangled cry of anguish erupted from his throat and he slugged it across its snout with his fist. Angrily it whirled its large, ape-like arms and sliced Dean's abdomen and chest resulting in large gashes opening and spurting red.

"Dean!" Sam yelled, throwing to him the fireplace poker.

Dean caught the poker and swung the iron across the creature's face. It snarled, clutching its hairy cheekbone. It gave him the second he needed to ram the sharp end into the top part of its chest. The fiend crawled off of him, whimpering, grasping at the embedded rod.

Blood bubbling over his lips, Dean, with all the strength he had left, crawled over to Sam who held the gun with trembling hands. Shakily, he draped himself over his little brother, still in full protection mode. His eyes closed and he went limp, unresponsive to Sam's calls.

The beast screeched as it finally pulled out the iron poker, tossing the metal out the window. Following the trail of blood to the fireplace, the fiend slowly stalked towards the two brothers, flashing its bloody, serrated teeth.

Determined, Sam raised the gun up from under his brother and let off a shot. It struck the beast in the chest causing it to stumble back. A torrent of pain erupted from Sam's throat as his hands twisted in torment from the buck of the gun. He dropped the gun. The monster recovered from the initial blast and continued its original trajectory. Hissing, Sam grabbed the gun once more, cocked it, and waited until the monster lowered its face to bite.

The shot went off, a full round of buckshot embedding into its face. The monster bucked back, squalling in pain, clutching its face with two full hands…until it fell onto its back, motionless.

The gun fell from his trembling hands once more and Sam breathed. "Dean?" he called to his brother.

There was no answer. No movement. Blood spilled from his brother's mouth onto his shirt.

"Dean, please!" he pleaded. "Talk to me. Wake up."

His pleas were met with silence. With nothing but the sound of his heavy breathing, Sam lowered his head to the ground, resigned to the fact his brother may be dead. His thoughts became fuzzy, his body parched from the stress of the last few moments. The light in the house began to darken.

Soon the room was full of his father's shouts. "Dean! Sam!"

John ran inside, halting in terror at the sight that befell him. Sam slowly blinked at him and called softly, "Dad." The eldest Winchester ran to his two sons, pulling the unconscious Dean off his youngest.

"Dean?" he palmed Dean's face, looking for a response. When he didn't receive one, he bent over Sam, pulling him into his lap. "Sammy?" he patted his cheek. "Sammy, you with me?"

"Help…Dean," Sam whispered.

"I will, son. I'm getting you both out of here." With surprising strength, John lifted Sam off the ground and brought him to the backseat of the Impala. A minute later, John returned carrying Dean, with a towel on his front to soak up the blood, placing him in the back with Sam.

"Sam, buddy. I need your help," John asked with desperate eyes. "Hold this. Press down as much as you can, for as long as you can."

Shakily, he nodded placing a weak hand on top of the towel. "That's good son!" John said, hopping into the car, turning the engine, and steering out onto the road at breakneck speed.

"Hold on boys."

Sam's eyes became heavy, his breathing slow. "I'm glad you're here Dad," he said, barely above a whisper.

His father wiped his face, concealing his fear and worry. "I'm not going anywhere son. You and Dean are going to be just fine."

A small smile stretched over his lips. His strength failed and he began to fall headfast into darkness, his head falling onto Dean's shoulder. The last he saw before everything went dark was cradling Dean's limp, bloody hand.

* * *

The vestiges of oblivion began to dissipate, opening the door to a realm of noise, overwhelming sensation, and dulled pain. Dean slowly opened his eyes, blinking through the heaviness. John sat in a chair next to his hospital bed. Of course, he was in a hospital. Dad was good at patching up small jobs, but his skills were no match for this latest thrill. He was far more surprised at being alive than learning about his current whereabouts. John straightened up, grasping his arm for assurance he was waking up.

"Dean, come on back son."

"Dad…" he slurred. His mouth felt like it was full of cotton balls, his voice slowed by the morphine.

"It's me. You're safe."

"Sam?"

"He's right here beside me," John replied, swallowing a hard lump. "He hasn't woken up yet."

As the minutes dragged on, the realm of lucidity became defined. Dean needed water pronto. He grimaced where the dull ache in his chest intensified, the bandages blanketing his chest reddened.

"Are you in a lot of pain?" John asked.

He shook his head, and then answered in a course whisper, idly scratching the gauze on his left pectoral, "more itchy than anything. Nothing I can't handle."

"They patched you up good. You'll be fine as long as you relax."

His dad's tone was curt, forced. Dean recognized this behavior. It was his stall tactic. Something was on the man's mind and he was working around on how to say it. In his muddled mind, Dean thought back to what he remembered last: his fight with the monstrous Cousin It, him crawling over on top of Sam, passing out and waking up here in a place that was too quiet and smelled of antiseptic.

"What was that thing Dad?"

"I don't know," John answered.

Dean read his facial expression was full of regret, shame. It didn't take him long to put two and two together. "It was what you were hunting before I called you home, wasn't it? It followed you here."

"Yeah, we think so. I left Bobby on the case. He never found it in Lisbon. We think it followed the scent of the truck."

"Is it dead?"

"Yeah, Sam shot it down." John's voice wavered a bit with a twinge of sadness.

"That's my boy," Dean smiled, chuckling softly. "How is he? Was he hurt? Did he at least stop vomiting? I know he was in a lot of pain before that thing showed up."

John then turned away, chiseling his jaw. "We, um…we don't know the full extent yet on Sam."

The small smile faded away, his heart starting to beat faster. "What d'ya mean? We need to wake him up. He needs to know I'm okay." He made to roll out of bed, his movement stunted by the wires and wrapped bandages.

His father placed a heavy hand on his shoulder, gently forcing him to remain in bed. "Dean, stop. You won't be able to help."

The panic began to rise up in his throat and he looked to his father with steely eyes, working hard to suppress the torrent of emotion. "Where is he?"

John released a long, regretful sigh, stood, and stepped out of the way …revealing Sam on the other side, comatose, non-moving, and hooked to a ventilator. Dean's hands shook as he stared, non-blinking, fearing the worst.

"The doctor says his vitals are dropping every hour," John said, disheartened. "He's not going to wake up Dean…"

**TBC**


	4. Chapter 4 - The Deal

**CHAPTER FOUR:**

**THE DEAL**

Slowly, Dean pulled on his jeans, hissing at every jostle. His injuries made simple tasks like trying on clothing very difficult, his movement stymied by the stretch of the fragile skin. As soon as he was dressed, he limped through the bathroom door and out of the hospital room. His father called his name repeatedly and for the first time in his existence, he ignored him. He made his way to the hospital elevator and watched in defiance as the metal doors slid to a close, shutting out his father who had run up.

John soon caught up with him at the Impala as he was gathering weapons from her trunk. "Dean, we need to talk."

"What's to talk about?" He opened a bag and began piling in books and some of his favorite guns.

"Son, stop!" John grabbed the bag from his hand. Reluctantly, Dean gave him his attention. "Look, I'm not going to stop you. You're old enough to make your decisions, but going off half-cocked is only going to make things worse. This is not the way."

"No, there's a way. There's always a way! We just have to find it."

"It won't –"

"How do you know?" Dean hissed. "You're always gone. You don't know even half of what he's been through, what I've been through. This is not how it ends. Why are you like this? Aren't you going to do anything?"

"What can we do, Dean, without pissing off some big bad who will come back around and kill us all?" John bellowed in return. "Sam wouldn't want you risking your life to save his. I'm already losing one son. Don't make me lose you too."

"You're a selfish bastard, you know that! This is not just happening to you. He's my responsibility! It's my job to look after him."

"Dean, you're not the one killing him. You have to know that."

"I know!" Dean covered his mouth, looking away. "I'm…I'm not giving up. I'll find something. You can't stop me," he took the bag from John's hands and closed the lid of the trunk. "Keys." He demanded, holding out his hand.

John passed them over, half in contempt and hope.

"I need you to stay with him, please," Dean pleaded. "We can't leave him alone, not even for a minute," he opened the driver's door. "I'm coming back."

John said nothing as his beloved Baby on Wheels roared to life and he sped off leaving his father in the parking lot.

* * *

Back at the house, he quickly found his Dad's journal, thumbed through the contents and wrote down every contact listed. The next few hours flew by as he called every number using the landline. Some answered, most didn't. He left various messages asking for any information that could help. Some suggested faith healers. He called the few numbers they gave – all but one said no. The problem was she needed Sam to come to her and that wasn't an option. As the hours dwindled by and he came up with no viable option, the penumbra of despair began to set in.

Frustrated, he threw the journal across the room. Taking a few deep breaths, he went to pick it up and perhaps leave for the library. The book fell open to a page with a drawing of a potted herbal plant, the name "Belladonna" listed beneath in his dad's cursive. He took another look. He remembered seeing that plant before…just recently.

Suddenly an idea struck him like an electric bolt…and he knew where he was going next.

Dean's feet barely hit the front stoop when the door swung open and the woman he met earlier stepped out. She was now wearing a long, black robe, a gold chain around her waist, dark eyes, and the red pendant around her neck pulsing with an orange glow.

In a strong voice, she said, "Figured I'd see you back here. So…you've come to kill me?"

Her eyes glinted with a lilac ray and Dean knew he had to choose his words carefully, though he was momentarily stunned.

"I knew you were hunters when you showed here the other day. I could smell the stench of your sins on you," she leaned against the doorjamb, smiling tauntingly. "Well, come on then…have a go!"

"Actually…" Dean swallowed the hard lump in his throat. "I…uh…I need your help."

She stared at him caustically, gauging; most likely telepathically doing a cat-scan of his body and mind. He opened his jacket and felt around his waist and pockets showing her he had no weapons, nor trinkets, and was seriously there on desperate terms. It took a few minutes, but she eventually relented and invited him inside. The interior was different than he had remembered. Maybe the lighting was different and there was a fragrance of spice and juniper. It looked darker, more elegant in the soft candlelight, not as homely as it was before.

"My name is Glenda," the witch announced. The retort was at the edge of his tongue. Before he could utter a single word, she sneered, "You make a Wizard of Oz reference, I'll rip out your wretched tongue."

His lips carefully snapped shut. _Affirmative, she can read minds!_ The witch stood five feet apart – for her protection, he was sure – still watchful of his every move. He didn't dare twitch. Too much was at stake.

"Am I to assume you're here for your brother, yes?"

Dean bit his lip and dropped his gaze to the floor, intent to conceal his desperation. "He's…um –"

"Dying…I know," Glenda responded stoically. "I sensed it the other day. I understand it's tragic, but you shouldn't concern yourself with such matters boy. The natural order is beyond either of our control."

He shook his head defiantly. "I don't care about any natural order. I can't lose him."

"Not surprising you'd say that. Nature doesn't care about your selfish need. You're still an infant in the eyes of time. You haven't experienced the true magnitude of grief a whole life can contain," she continued. "With time, you will. It'll be hard. Just know it's perfectly natural to feel this way, _Dean_."

The young hunter was now on edge, surprised. "How do you know my name?"

"I know many things." She went over to a cabinet by the stairs, pulled out a bottle of sherry, and poured herself a small glass. Taking a sip, she peered at him icily over the rim of the cup. It gave him a slight shiver.

Finished with her beverage, she said, "I'll give you this advice only once. There are many things we have no control over. We are mere specks of dust in the eyes of our creator –"

"Don't give me a freakin' Kansas song!" Dean snapped. "Help me, please! Don't make me get down on my knees and beg!"

"And what makes you think I have any power to do this? Is it simply because I'm a witch – though I prefer to call myself a self-sufficient alchemist – or is it because you'd much rather work with me than the Devil himself?"

"No," Dean began, "I'm …just…looking for any solution. I don't care what the cost is."

"Hmm…many people in your shoes say that. They don't fully understand its meaning until it is too late, and in the end, the reality is much worse, the cost far greater than their initial understanding."

The fibers of Dean's patience began to splinter off. He willed himself to stay a little longer, hopefully a little more prodding and she'll help him. "I get what you're saying, I do. But I won't quit…not on this…not until I've turned over every stone and crossed every bridge. Even if it means trading my life for his, I'll do it."

Glenda's face tightened, her dark eyes squinting. "I can see your stubbornness has no boundaries, and I suppose you will not give up in your quest until you've hit every wall possible. Very well…" she sighed. "Look, I may have something that could help your brother's ailment."

Dean held his breath, non-blinking, hoping against hope that some bit of fortune will come his way.

"Since you both were so sweet the other day in _not_ sending a hunter after me, I'll trade you for it. It's an elixir, a recipe made several hundred years ago. It may eradicate his illness, cleanse his body so to speak."

"Oh my god…thank you!"

"But," she said darkly, "understand it may not be one-hundred percent effective. It won't work if he dies. I can't bring people back from the dead."

"We'll take our chances. We're losing anyway. Where is it?"

"Not so fast. I said I'll trade it. It comes at a price."

Dean huffed, irritated. "Of course it does. What are the terms?"

"There's a sacred cup I've been itching to get my hands for some time now. It's in a hard to get to place, in a museum a couple hours away. However, the entity who placed it there issued a shielding charm so my kind cannot pass through…but you can."

"Let me guess," Dean mouthed off, his temper besting him. "It's got some hoodoo magic for you to curse some poor bastard?"

In a flash, Glenda raised her fist, an electric charge sparking upwards, and Dean then found his body suspended in the air. He steeled his resolve and glowered. "I won't help you kill anyone."

She bared her teeth and scoffed. "It's not for that," she lowered her fist and Dean dropped to the floor like an unwanted sack. "Not all of my kin are evil, you know. I don't kill. I don't hex – unless it's for my own protection. That's the problem with you hunters. All you ever see is black. No light. Just darkness in everything you meet."

Dean allowed her a moment to compose herself. There wasn't much else to do.

"Without this relic, I can't create the elixir. Your brother doesn't have much time left," she said. "Are you going to do this or not?"

Closing his eyes, ashamed, he responded, "What do I need to do?"

* * *

Antsy, John found himself in a routine with first, straightening out Sam's blankets, secondly, watching the fluctuating numbers on the monitor, and thirdly, checking to see if the tube inserted into his son's throat was done properly. On any other moment, he would find himself reciting memories of Mary to Sam. It was regrettable that Sam didn't have a chance to know his mother, have a chance to see what she looked like – apart from the pictures – or have him tell his son the best parts of his former life. A small hope in that Sam could hear the stories he shared kept him going.

Upon the next inspection of Sam's blankets, John noticed his arm was cool – icy – to the touch. Intrigued, he touched his cheek, noting the same temperature. He unfurled the blanket and felt his leg, also chilled. He left the room for the nurse's station. At reception sat a young black woman. She was polite and asked him if he needed anything.

"My son, in room 402, is really cold," he informed her. "Can we get a warming pad or something to rise his temperature a little bit?"

The nurse typed in the room number on the computer, pulling up the patients file. She looked regretful, understanding this was a terminally ill patient, and said calmly, "What he's experiencing is normal. His body is beginning to shut down. He's in the final stages now."

"I don't care what stage he's in," John spat. "Help me find something to warm him up." He stormed away returning to the room. He sat back in his chair, his face falling into his hands. "Come on Dean," he whispered. "Come on son. Find something please."

* * *

_This is sooooo stupid!_ Dean thought as he waited in the Impala outside the museum.

The locale was a local Art museum two hours away dedicated to the housing and education of classical relics. This _sacred_ object Glenda, the Witch of the North, so called "needed" was located in the Byzantium wing. There were multiple wings dedicated to the Classical Greek, Babylonian, and Egyptian periods. The target was a bronze chalice that supposedly belonged to an Assyrian priest. As the legend goes, it is said to have been coated with his blood when he was possessed by their god, Assur. Glenda would not answer his questions about what sort of power it contained except only where to find it and that it would curse him when touched.

Part of his routine on the hunts with his father was to stake out the area, understand the variables, and make plans A through C for execution. This was no different…except now he wasn't there to hunt down some ghost. He waited until morning when the museum had opened. Wearing a baseball cap, he visited the place, noting all the exits, the security guards, their routine, and the location of the exhibits….along with their mystery object. He found the item was no bigger than a coffee cup. Easy to stow in his pocket.

He went to the library and used his useful computer skills to find the blueprints of the security office, the camera room, mapping where all the cameras in the museum were located. Plan A and B were made. Plan C he would have to improvise. Now he needed to wait until night when the crowds were gone and security was in smaller numbers.

He just prayed he wasn't out of time.

The alarm in his watch went off. _Eight o'clock_. It was time. He had five minutes to get to the loading dock when the next shift was taking place, the guards busy in their locker room.

Sneaking around, he waited for the back door to the dock to open. An employee exited and he carefully slipped through, clinging to the wall. On the tips of his toes, he made his way towards the camera room. The door was locked. Looking around, he pulled out his lockpick and got to work. The lock sprung open and he stowed his tool in his pocket when a gun pressed to the back of his head. Slowly, he fanned out his hands and heeded to the guards' request to stand up.

As trained, Dean disabled the gun and knocked the guard out with a swift hit to the temple. There was no time for negotiations. The movement seared through the cuts on his stomach, and he bent over, holding his midriff. Gasping through the pain, he dragged the guard into the computer room, took out his keys, and flashlight. "Sorry pal," he said patting the back of the man's balding head. Quickly, he went to the computer monitor and disabled the video footage for the next ten minutes. His window of time was set.

Step one: he went to the Egyptian wing, pulled out a rock from his pocket and threw it into the glass of a wax figure recreation piece. The lights suddenly dimmed, switching to a red and yellow kaleidoscope. High pitched sirens blared, propelling his feet into action. He hid behind a statue in the Greek Wing and waited for the several guard members to run past. As fast as he could, he ran to the Byzantium wing and found his target.

He only had thirty seconds.

Step two: he threw the second rock from his pocket and broke the glass container surrounding the Chalice. His heart racing, he pulled out the paper with the spell he needed to say to pick up the object…or else his hands would melt off. The Gaelic words were hard to say, but he managed them speaking slowly and carefully. After the phrase was read, he waited for a spark, light, something to indicate he had the all clear. When nothing transpired, he came forward and closed his eyes as he picked up the chalice with his left hand.

It worked.

His hand was still intact when he opened his left eye, his fingers closed around the bronze cup. Stowing the cup into his pocket, he high-tailed it out of the exhibit as his escape window dwindled fast. He had never ran so fast in his life – down the catering hall, up the loading dock, and back into the woods where his Baby waited. Jumping in, he sped away down a dark road as multiple police units raced towards the museum.

"Ha!" he clamored, triumphant, his lead foot speeding the Impala back to town, back to hope.

* * *

Several beeps woke John from his slumber, his neck emitting a nice pop as he straightened up. Sam had not moved – obviously – his features lax and unresponsive. He appreciated the beeping; it was the only source of intel that told him his son was still fighting. A cramp chorused in his right hip and he stood, deciding to get some coffee.

Before he left the room, the monitor wailed, the cacophony of beeps now an orchestra. He hollered, "Help! We need help!"

A team of nurses, along with Dr. Reuben, ran in and assessed the situation. "He's in cardiac arrest."

"Help him!" John screamed.

"Get the crash cart!" Reuben yelled. "I'm beginning compressions."

The team unhooked Sam's respirator and attached an Ambu bag, while Dr. Reuben began CPR. A few seconds later, a crash cart with a defibrillator rolled in. The nurse prepped his son with the pads ready to be shocked. Terrified, John backed away into the corner covering his mouth with his hands. His nightmare was finally becoming true and he had no idea how to stop it. "Come on Dean!"

* * *

Dean made it back to house 2503 in less than two hours. Running up the front steps, he barreled through the door, laden with sweat, and on the cusp of insanity. "Glenda!" he called. "I've got it."

The witch glided down her stairwell wearing a midnight blue shawl and feathered cap. "Dean, you have what I've asked for?"

"Here," he said handing it over.

She gingerly took it from his hands idly feeling the bumps around the bronze metal, closing her eyes as though she was reunited with a long lost love. "I can't believe it," she exclaimed, cradling the cup, then whispered to it: "Hello again, my love. I've missed you."

To say Dean was weirded out would be an understatement.

"This belonged to my husband. I haven't seen this in over a century," she answered his unspoken question, her back turned to him. Then she whirled around, her gaze sharpening. "Come quickly! We're almost out of time."

Dean's feet leapt after her into the small kitchenette. Placing the chalice down on the wooden island, she shuffled to a tall armoire. Inside were several shelves full of randomly shaped apothecary jars. Dean couldn't keep track of all the ingredients she pulled. In a dance-like motion, Glenda poured various amounts of the herbal contents into the bronze cup.

Glenda asked, "You share the same DNA as your brother, yes?"

"What?"

"He's your full-blooded brother? You both share the same set of parents, true?"

"Oh! Yeah."

"Good!" She plucked a few hairs from the top of his head causing him to quietly yelp.

Once she added the hairs to the cup, she poured in a dark liquid from a tall s-shaped bottle, muttering a few words. Dean couldn't make out the language, however, it sounded ancient...maybe some of the Gaelic he had read earlier. The concoction began to bubble and churn, spinning into a high speed. Glenda snapped her fingers and, in the blink of an eye, the brown brew vanished from the cup and appeared in a small vile in her hand.

Quickly, she thrust it into his hand. "He has to drink this. You need to go now. Get there as fast as you can!"

The pit in Dean's stomach dropped and he raced out the door. There was no time for goodbyes or appreciation. He knew she would understand as he jumped behind the wheel. His beloved Impala screamed, turning back onto the road, as it sped off towards the hospital.


	5. Chapter 5 - The Last Resort

**CHAPTER FIVE:**

**THE LAST RESORT**

The gas pedal pushed flat against the base board; the Impala singing as it gobbled up asphalt. His feeling of despair grew threatening in his gut, the spasms twisting and roiling, increasing his anxiety. A bead of sweat ran down his temple as he concentrated on the road, veering around multiple cars on the highway. The tear in his side stung and he hissed, fighting through the heat.

"Come on baby, go…go…go!" he voiced through clenched teeth. The hospital was maybe another three minutes.

* * *

"All clear!" Dr. Reuben yelled, descending the paddles. All hands went up and Sam's chest bucked forward.

"No change," the nurse called.

"Let's go again. Charge to 360." The nurse hit the button, charging the cart. "All clear!"

John paced in the back of the room, his face flushed, exerted from the stress of the last few moments. Sam had gone into cardiac arrest and the team had been attempting to revive him at his demand with no results. They continued to yell out "no pulse." John's heart thumped madly against his cage creating a nasty ache.

"Come on son. Don't quit yet!"

* * *

The tires screamed, smoking, as they slid to a jolting halt in front of the E.R. bay. Dean ripped the keys off and stumbled out of the car, falling to his knees. He made a funny noise and leapt into a run, limping towards the bay doors, the elixir held tight in his hand. Once inside the E.R. bay, he slammed into the elevator, the doors just closing shut.

"Ahhh, dammit!" he growled, and then ran for the stairs.

He ran as fast as he could up the three flights of stairs.

* * *

A solid fifteen minutes passed and there were still no signs of life. The team had shocked Sam's heart a fifth time, and then went in for CPR. After the last compression, Dr. Reuben stopped and looked to his nurse at the monitor.

"Check again," Dr. Reuben called.

"No sinus rhythm. Still in V-tach."

The doctor then knelt his head, soughed in disappointment, and said, "Alright, that's it everybody." He placed the paddles back onto the cart.

"No, please don't!" John pleaded, running forward. "Don't stop. Keep going!"

"I'm calling it," Dr. Reuben called to his team, looking at his watch. "Time of death: 12:46am."

"No, no, no, no!"

The doctor turned to him shaking his head, taking off his gloves. "I'm sorry John. There's nothing more we can do. He's gone."

John's body suddenly trembled and he couldn't look at the doctor, couldn't look at the team who were cleaning the equipment off his placid son, shutting off the monitors. His fists clenched and clenched and he now felt like he was descending down a dark spiral. The staff filed outside, the room becoming bone-chillingly quiet. John approached Sam laying so peacefully in the bed, the tube still in his throat. A lone tear fell down his cheek as he laid a gentle kiss on Sam's forehead, running a hand over his head.

"I'm so sorry, Sammy. God, I'm so sorry."

There were loud footfalls echoing from the hallway. He recognized that gait. John straightened up and closed his eyes in despair. Dean was back. He prepared for the worst.

* * *

Dean's sprint slowed to a halt as he entered the room. The first thing he noticed was the room was too quiet – no beeps, no whoosh of the respirator, nothing. He saw his father who looked at him with an agonized expression and he suddenly feared the worst. His gaze slowly fell on his still, lifeless sibling.

Sam? _Was he_?

The air in the room had disappeared. He couldn't breathe. His knees buckled as he approached the bed, his father catching him and lowering him to the floor. Both men held onto each other in a vice-like grip, caving into their emotion. Dean cried a litany of "no's".

"He's gone Dean. He held on as long as he could," John said. Feeling something wet, he raised his hand and saw it was smeared with blood. "Dean, you're hurt."

Dean refused to acknowledge the concern over his bleeding midriff. His whole world felt like it was being crushed to dust. He couldn't think, he couldn't move, only released a squall of misery. He wanted out of this nightmare, smacking his chest to elicit pain, anything to wake up.

This was not the end. It couldn't be. It was not right. Dean scrambled to his feet ignoring his father's pleas, muttering repeatedly, "no, I'm not giving up. I'm not giving up."

John tried to pull him back from his brother and he wrestled his arm out of his grip. Carefully, he removed the intubation tube from Sam's mouth and took the elixir out of his pocket. Lifting his limp brother into his arms, he poured the dark liquid down his throat, emptying the vile down to the last drop.

"Dean, stop this. He's gone!"

Shaking his head in disbelief, he cried, "Leave me alone!" He pulled Sam's head into the crook of his neck, rocking him slightly. "He can't die. Not on my watch! Just give it a minute, please!"

John covered his head with his hands and turned around, overwhelmed.

A minute passed and nothing happened. There was no miraculous opening of the eyes, or twitch of the hand, no breath of life. "Oh god," he wheezed, squeezing his little brother some more, placing a hand on his chest. John couldn't take it much more and began to leave the room.

Dean's eyes suddenly shot open, his head bucking upwards…he felt something beneath his fingertips. A small _thump, thump, thump_…"Dad, wait!"

John stopped and turned around as Dean brought his head to Sam's chest. "Come here and listen. I hear something." His father was skeptical. "No seriously, I really hear something."

Immediately, John came over and lowered his head to Sam's chest as Dean did. He then popped up, in disbelief, in surprise. He heard it too! Dean gently laid Sam back onto the bedspread as John ran to get the doctor.

The staff was slow to move, but eventually, Dr. Reuben returned appearing cynical. He tried to assure that Sam was indeed gone, but relented when both Winchesters nearly threatened him. Reluctantly, he pulled off his stethoscope and listened for a heartbeat. Next, his eyes widened and he pressed the call button. Dean and John were ushered from the room as the team went back to work. Watching the flurry of activity from the hallway, John held onto his injured son unwilling to let him go.

A few minutes later, Sam was carted from the room. Dr. Reuben met them quickly explaining what they were doing. "I'm in shock," he said. "I can't explain it. There was no sinus output. He had been clinically dead for over fifteen minutes. It's possible he still had a pulse, but was too low to be detected. I'm not sure."

"So, is he going to be okay now?" Dean asked, rushed.

"We're taking him up to I.C.U and going to run some tests. Go to the waiting room. I'll meet you there once we have definitive answers." The doctor then looked at Dean. "Dean, I see you're favoring a bit in your side. I'll have a nurse come and take care of you. Sit tight gentlemen."

The Winchesters nodded in appreciation and went to the waiting room as directed. John helped to lower his son into a chair. He placed a tender hand along his cheek and peered into his eyes. "Dean, I'm not going to ask what you found. Just tell me one thing…tell me you didn't make a deal…tell me I'm not going to lose you."

Dean smiled briefly. "No sir…let's just say that sometimes good deeds pay off. We'll be fine…as long as we don't go near Kansas City anytime soon."

Nodding in understanding, John then said, "I'm proud of you son. Let's get you patched up."

* * *

The sun began to present a new day when Dr. Reuben entered into the waiting room, gently waking the two men. Both John and Dean straightened up, eager for news.

"Gentlemen," the doctor began ecstatically, "all I can say is a miracle has happened. Personally, I don't believe in miracles, but I've got no other explanation for this. Sam's going to be okay. We ran some more scans. The tumor has shrunk, almost non-existent. His vitals are stable and he's starting to come around."

Both men released a sigh of relief.

Dr. Reuben continued, "We've moved him to recovery so you can sit with him. He should wake soon. I want to keep him here a few more days for observation. Your boy has an angel watching over him. If all goes well, he can go home in a few days."

"Thank you sir," John shook the man's hand. "We can't describe how appreciative we are. But now, let's go see our boy."

They were led to the recovery wing of the hospital and into the room. Sam lay asleep, some of his golden color returning to his cheeks. Dean was glad to see this. He grabbed his hand as he took a seat next to the bed. The hand twitched and soon Sam opened his eyes. They were full of life, full of triumph.

Dean bit his lip to avoid his tears. "Hey Sammy. I told ya, you were gonna kick it in the ass dude."

Then Sam smiled and Dean smiled back. He hadn't failed his brother.

**END**


End file.
